Just to See

by Gerald Grow, 1991
http://www.longleaf.net

God said to the man who died,
“I called to you on every side,
and you wouldn’t see me.”

God said to the man who was dead,
“I burst like music inside your head,
and you wouldn’t hear me.”

Blind and dumb, he heard God say,
“I flamed in creatures, night and day,
and you ignored me.

“How can you come knock at Heaven,
how can you beg from me,
when I have surrounded you,
danced and sung out at you,
all — your — blind — life,
begging you just to see,
begging you just to see?”

God said to the glazing eye,
“Everything you looked at was alive,
and was always me.

“The mask you made to hide your face
hid the world from infinite grace,
and banished me.

“Stifled inside you, how could I
rejoin myself, rejoice, die,
and be reborn me?

“How can you come knock at Heaven,
how can you beg from me,
when I have surrounded you,
danced and sung out at you,
all — your — blind — life,
begging you just to see,
begging you just to see?”

God said to the staring soul,
“Leave now. Go. Be born, grow old.
Remember me.

“Though you walk through the dream of matter,
I am with you: Scatter
all that’s not me.

“Live. Learn to see
the dream you knew as life, and free
yourself to be me.

“Then you won’t come knock at Heaven,
then you won’t beg from me.
I will surround you,
dance and sing out in you,
all — our — one — life,
begging you just to see,
begging you just to see.”